by Zolbrod, Zoe
“I already tell you. For me it’s no problem to stay at Star Hotel. But tonight we have one business meeting. If you want to make some business together, make another visa for Thailand, you must come, too.” I roll on my side so our faces almost touch, our bodies press together. I pull my face away, body still all touching, so she can see me when I smile. “Do you want to? Okay?”
“Business?”
“Yes, I tell you. You didn’t hear me? Some business with Kenya friends.”
“What kind of business?” Maybe NokRobin’s not drunk. Her arm goes loose around me. She wrinkles her face, her counting look, wide awake.
“You must leave Thailand, right? To get other visa? You want to do this?” I kiss her once before I get up from the bed. I put Buddha on the top of the tall dresser, then, quick, I wai.
“The wanting to isn’t the issue,” she says. “It’s the money. Neither of us has any money to get me anywhere.”
“Not at this time. That’s why I arrange this business.” I go to the table and light one cigarette. NokRobin doesn’t like cigarettes. In bungalow, guesthouse, with her I don’t smoke. But I measure this now. Maybe her parents send her one ticket. How can I get her to stay with me? If she sees that I’m strong, very adventure, like Marlboro, maybe she’ll stay. She won’t stay if she thinks I’m weak.
“They’re from Kenya? How do you know them?”
“I know these friends maybe ... two years now. They have some business for us to go to Malaysia.”
“To do what?” She sits up in bed. “You know, drugs are punishable by death in Malaysia. I mean, it’s serious. It’s not drugs, is it? We’re not going to be carrying any drugs?”
“Of course not. They’re not drug dealers.”
“There were some African men staying around Khao San who were drug dealers. At least that’s what everyone said. They stayed at that blue guesthouse, what was its name? That one behind the wat. Did you ever see them?”
“These friends are not drug dealers.”
“How do you know? It’s not like they’d tell you.”
“You want some business? Come to see. Then you think it’s drugs, go away.”
“They really have some legitimate business? Doing what?”
“Really, really,” I smile at her and nod. The red numbers on the clock spell 7:40. “We go to dinner, they explain. But get ready now. Take fast shower. We meet them at eight o’clock.”
We ride in one meter taxi cab to Suan Malakaw, good restaurant. Five people ride in this taxi and the driver looks at me cold, I think so, but I just tell him where to go, and I turn to the backseat and talk to Abu. NokRobin sits in front with me, but her eyes stay outside the taxi window. Traffic moves forward together, and the lights outside the window pass quickly.
I order food for everyone, many special Thai dishes. There’s the feast on our table. On the cart near Abu, one bucket of ice, some Coca-Cola, one bottle Johnnie Walker Red whiskey. Waiter serves this, and the second time he serves I put my hand on my glass. No more. NokRobin doesn’t cover her glass. She sits very straight—she wants to seem tall, but she’s small at this table, pale. Her skin gets darker in Thailand, sure, but the front of her blue dress slips low, and one finger of white shows there, the place where her bathing suit should cover. I know the places where she’s banana white farang, and now everyone can see. In this restaurant, there’s only Thai people. No other black man except Abu and his friends. Now these friends don’t wear their African shirts; they wear plain button shirts, pressed trousers, like Thai, but still people are looking. They wonder: What’s this? They don’t like my long hair; they think I’m bad, rude to my parents. What do I do with these farang? Black ones, too-they think I’m disrespecting.
When Abu holds his hand open to offer NokRobin more noodles, his palm is like one flower, blooming pink. He asks NokRobin many questions: where has she traveled, what does she do in USA, things he already asked me about her. Thai people don’t ask so much-not the things he’s saying now, so many questions all together-but she’s polite. She’s very nice person, and when she gives answers she tilts her head to one side, to other side like the bird in the tree. She laughs, quick, after each thing she says. Everyone else sits, watches NokRobin, except when Yoke points with his chin to one Thai lady, bar girl, I think so, who comes in with one farang man.
“But what about you?” NokRobin asks Abu. “What business of yours lets you come to Thailand so often?”
“Ah, I have been lucky enough to establish a small import-export trade. I have clients and colleagues throughout Southeast Asia, but I prefer Bangkok, where I can see my friend, Mr. Pivlaierd.” He lifts his glass to me, nods his head, then he drinks. “We base ourselves here as much as we can.”
“What kind of things do you export?”
“It’s a very specialized market,” Abu says. His voice is deep, and he speaks English deep, too; his words roll like the sea, not like NokRobin’s, high and sharp. “We supply certain Kenyan products to collectors. It sounds incidental, I realize. But a rich man is willing to pay much for a relatively small thing, if his neighbor does not have it. I’m sure you have seen this attitude in the United States, when selling automobiles.”
“With cars, it seemed more like people wanted what their neighbors did have.” NokRobin laughs again.
“I’m sure you managed to convince them, Miss Miatta, that their neighbor had a very fine car, just the kind you wanted to sell. Perhaps your namesake?”
“I wish. But no, I worked for a Nissan dealership. Do you do a lot of sales?”
“I do the contacting, which takes a certain amount of discretion. And I arrange the paperwork and the transport. Very important. Some of my products require hand delivery. They’re too expensive to trust with a delivery service. Too rare.”
NokRobin bends to Abu, but for one moment, she shoots her eyes to me. She wants to know exactly what he delivers, how much he pays. She wants to know if I know. She doesn’t ask. Maybe she learns this from Thai style, to be quiet, but why’s she look at me now? I listen close, but I show glass eyes to NokRobin. I look somewhere else. Bar girl points to menu, translates between the waiter and the farang.
“So you deliver them?”
“Personally? Yes, on occasion. But we often use a courier. The trick is to find someone trustworthy, well spoken, professional. And so, Miss Miatta, here we are. Mr. Pivlaierd has indicated that you and I may be in a position to benefit each other.”
“Well, I’m certainly in a position to need benefiting!” NokRobin laughs again, too loud. She looks at me, but I look at other customers. I wish NokRobin would act more sweet and cool.
“I have in my possession a package that must be delivered to a gentleman in Kuala Lumpur. And I’m sure he would appreciate dealing with an attractive American woman instead of this black African man.” Abu laughs. Jomo and Yoke laugh, too.
“I’m sure Piv’s told you I need to go somewhere to renew my visa. But what exactly would we be carrying?”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that. My business won’t take much more than an afternoon. You’ll just meet briefly with our client at his office. You might need to meet someone a few days later to receive a bag to take back-just some Asian curios for which I might have a Western buyer.”
NokRobin wants some message from my eye, but I give none. Her eyes make circles around the table, and she starts to laugh but stops after making one small bedroom sound. Behind me I hear the customer order eel. Someone says yes, they will build new mall in Thonburi district, third new mall to open this year. When my parents live in Bangkok, they work very hard to get money. They save their money to come home, for our house there, for my sister and me. Where they live then, too many fights, some men are drunk all the time. They don’t tell me this, but I know. They never come to restaurants like Suan Malakaw when they live in the capital city. But the man eating eel, I hear his voice and I think of my parents, my home. Sometimes I feel tired, always being with farang people, pe
ople who don’t speak Thai. But I study them, too. I learn something.
“Asian curios? That’s right up my alley. What is it, exactly?”
“Nothing outlandish, I assure you. It’s best if you don’t concern yourself.”
“But how can I not? We need to know what risk we’re taking.” She makes three sounds, trying again to laugh.
“We will be putting our trust in you, Miss Miatta. You will be carrying expensive artifacts and then a great deal of cash, but we give you the benefit of the doubt, because you are a friend of Mr. Pivlaierd.” Abu’s body is relaxed. He leans back on chair pushed far from table, elbow resting on top of that one. But his eye on NokRobin is not relaxed.
“Thank you. It’s just . . . How do I know ... ? How will we know?” She stops talking so she can breathe. I hear her. One breath. Two breath.
“Take me at my word when I say I don’t want for myself the risks that narcortics bring. As for the rest, we’ll give you exact instructions once you’re there.”
I hear Robin breathe, and I see her breathe-ribs get wide, shoulders lift, ribs fall in, shoulders fall. I feel her grow and shrink beside me. She’s deciding.
“There’ll be a ticket, right? And ... what about money?”
“A per diem cost, of course. And a bonus when you get back to us all here. But let’s look at this as a trial run. You are in a tight spot, yes? You’d have to be leaving the country anyway? Let’s see how this fits and talk some more when you get back. In the meantime, we might be able to set Mr. Piv up to something here while you’re gone. Right Piv?” Abu puts his hand on mine and shakes it.
First I think he tricks me. Even though I help him and show him NokRobin, he doesn’t help me. He doesn’t help me to travel with her, to travel, to leave here. He takes her away. But I bury my feelings inside my cool heart, because many possibilities exist. I lift my chin at him and say yes, of course, without one word. Malaysia’s very small place. I wait longer, I go farther. Europe or USA or Africa. I don’t look at NokRobin when she looks at me—her eyes say too many questions.
“Piv’s not coming with me? But Piv, I thought this was for us both.”
Now I look at her. Now I smile at her. “This just one short trip, to open up some possibility. In Kuala Lumpur, you get double-entry visa to Thailand. Then, Mr. Abu sends us on the better trip. Something like you call honeymoon.” We look together at Abu, and I lift my chin at him again.
Abu smiles at me. “Yes. Of course. If all goes well. You do understand, Miss Miatta, that while I instinctively trust you, and while you come with the finest referral, we are dealing here with delicate situations and, of course, with a lot of money, which can occasionally confuse. And so Piv will stay here-and so will your address book.”
“Address book?”
“And, oh, yes. That’s a lovely dress you have on, and you look lovely in it. Like that movie star. We always go to see the American movies when we’re in Bangkok. What’s the new one we saw, Jomo?”
“Miss Miatta looks as lovely as any movie star.”
“Yes. But as a traveler, I assume that the clothes you have with you are all somewhat casual.”
“Except this dress. I didn’t expect to be working.”
“Of course. You’ve been on an extended holiday. But now that is changing.” From his pocket Abu takes one black billfold. I want to see inside this canyon; money from all over the world is there, I know it. He gives me, folded, some thousands of baht—I can feel it’s that much, of course I don’t count it. “You’ll need some business clothes. Something conservative for the air travel. Something presentable for Kuala Lumpur.” Abu touches his fingers together to show what kind. “Piv will take you shopping tomorrow while we arrange for the tickets.”
Not many people are in the restaurant now. At this table, everybody looks at NokRobin, skinny farang. She sits straight. “I got some Thai silk when I visited Jim Thompson’s house. Sort of plum. I had planned to get it made into a suit. Does that sound like the right sort of thing?”
Abu spreads open his hand and tips his head to her. “Mr. Pivlaierd, you know a good tailor, I’m sure.” It’s true. One lady I know, she gives me two hundred baht when I bring in farang who orders the expensive suit. Abu picks up the Johnnie Walker and pours this in every glass. In my glass, too, and I don’t want it, but no problem. He raise up his whiskey. “To doing business together,” he says. He makes this toast. He taps his glass to mine.
Chapter 8
Getting ready to go to the airport, Robin shaved her legs so close they gleamed; she slipped on hose in addition. She tucked a silk blouse into a trim skirt that matched her jacket. She slicked back her hair and put on full makeup, swiping at palettes she had bought for this purpose at a ten-story shopping complex the day before, recalling gestures that a year ago she had used every day and hadn’t used once since leaving the States. Grinning at her reflection, the brittle lines she had painted on herself, the serious prettiness, she turned to Piv and said, “Hello, sir. I understand you’re interested in the new Maxima.” Fabrics whispered as she walked from the mirror toward him, hand outstretched.
“Oh! You are very business now, I see. Yes, madam,” he said, and gave a bow. Then he cupped her chin in his hand. “So beautiful!”
In the lobby, Abu complimented her, too, and then put her in a cab with the piece of wheeled black luggage she was to carry for him. Later, the luggage tucked under the seat in front of her, Robin relaxed into the recycled air of a jet’s shuddering cabin. She had only the word of a virtual stranger that she wasn’t smuggling drugs into a Muslim country, but she was headed out of Thailand with two days yet to spare, transformed from a beggared backpacker into a well-off American white woman. As the hum in the cabin increased, she crossed her ankles, set her face. With a breathless gallop and then a leap, the Boeing lifted, tipping her into the fold of her cushioned seat. The metal gleam of Bangkok spread beneath her. Piv was down there somewhere, and a thread in her ear smacked with a soft suction pop as the altitude increased and she left him behind. The loss caused a pang, but she felt good-even the melancholy yearning felt fine. She was a world traveler. Coming and going and leaving behind. She didn’t need a fairy godmother, a stalwart father with ample funds; she was moving through the world on her own fuel, taking the first step toward fulfilling the promise she had made to herself in Jim Thompson’s study.
During her week with Zella, Robin had spent most of her time tagging along while her patron shopped hard and shrugged off attempts at conversation. “Will you shut up,” she’d finally snapped over a market-stall lunch a few days after she’d offered to help Robin. “It’s not a job you send in your resume for. You’ve got to figure it out yourself.” But the next afternoon Zella took Robin to her favorite museum, the Jim Thompson House, and in the taxi ride over she cheerfully provided explication about the American expat who had rekindled the Thai silk industry and amassed an impeccable collection of Southeast Asian art. “You’ll love it there,” Zella had said. “I do, and you will, too.”
She was right. Pushing open the gate to Jim Thompson’s walled garden, Robin immediately recognized the place as a personal archetype. Glossy foliage lapped at a teak house whose peaked roofs made lace against the pollution-soft sky. Lotus pads floated on a small pond, and marble statues nestled amid palm fronds. Here in three dimensions-in planed teak and new blossom and carved stone-was Robin’s fantasy of somewhere better, somewhere else. She strolled the gardens in a trance of wanting while a breeze stirred the jasmine blossoms that threaded through the undergrowth. Robin speculated that someone as enamored of Thailand as Jim Thompson was must have had a lovely Thai wife, and she imagined herself the daughter of this cross-cultured pairing, a symbol of the best of both worlds, returning now to her ancestral home. She walked up the stone path to the entryway of the house she was supposed to have had.
But inside the house, in her fantasy father’s study, amid collections of porcelain and pottery and temple paintings, a Buddha, the
most beautiful she had ever seen, derailed her daydream. The statue was similar to one she had bought two days earlier, the single item she had purchased during days of shopping after swallowing her humiliation and asking to borrow an extra two hundred dollars from Zella. Both Buddhas were standing bronze figures, the chins tucked slightly, palms facing forward, eyes limpid. The one at Jim Thompson’s was a thirteenth-century antique, and hers wasn’t, of course, but it was a wonderful imitation, rich and skilled. A tough green shoot poked through the crust of her habitual, backward-glance fantasizing: she’d acquired the Buddha on her own, coming from the parents that she had, from the dilapidated ranch in a central Florida backwater. She didn’t need to imagine being born to Jim Thompson, something that would never be; she could imagine being Jim Thompson herself. The modern, female version.
That’s what I’m working toward, Robin reminded herself. The stateless hallways of Subang Airport funneled her into Malaysia, and the air waltzed around her, washing away most of the nervousness and leaving just a soft tickling thrill. Her passport was thunked with a stamp, and she clicked freely past the long low tables where other travelers stood as witnesses to the ransacking of their luggage.
The feeling of freedom didn’t last long. Outside customs, as she had been told one would, a man stood holding a small cardboard sign with her name penned in black letters. He wore a white button-down shirt and slightly faded trousers. Robin felt shy and overdressed as she approached him, but she offered her hand forthrightly.
“Hello. I’m Robin Miatta,” she said.
He squeezed her fingers quickly in his and bowed from his shoulders, but he did not speak, simply reached for the suitcase’s handle. With a gesture of hand and head he indicated she was to follow him. She walked half a pace behind, wishing she could use the bathroom but not daring to request it. The man escorted her to a blue sedan, where he leaned in to speak briefly with the driver in a language Robin assumed was Chinese. He put the suitcase in the trunk, and then he opened the back door for her. She felt passed from man to man as if she herself were the cargo. The door slammed shut.